


The Luck of the Last

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Series: D&D Original Stories [6]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Orphans, Priests, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: What could've been a happy life, a normal life, changes within the space of an instant. Guilt plagues little Wes until he finds new purpose. Will he bring honor to his family by defending those incapable of protecting themselves, or will he get lost in the motions, living day after day as little more than a phony mercenary, combing the trade routes to get revenge on the bandits who put him into this ordeal in the first place?





	The Luck of the Last

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly different from some others stories because it's based on an NPC I actually maneuvered as the DM in a small D&D campaign I play with a friend. The story is a summary of that character's backstory. Enjoy!

He prays after every meal to thank the Goddess for the wealth they’ve been granted, for the trade that flows across even the most forgotten settlements and which allows them to taste foreign spices, from time to time. Mother’s roast on blessed days is the most delicious thing he’s ever had.

He prays every night before falling asleep, or as an afterthought, when he’s already under the covers, to hope for a golden day filled with happiness in the morrow, too. If Desmond was still here, he’d be telling him to shut up from across the room, but his brother’s bed lays empty and cold opposite him, and he remembers to pray on his behalf, too.

He prays to his parents, Ewald and Isolda, to let him hold it, just for a few seconds – he’s never held a gold coin in his hands before, and it’s so shiny and beautiful. He begs, repeating he’s been so good, so very very good, to please let him touch the coin a priest from Ty’oth came all the way to bless. After an entire afternoon of chores and study, they finally let him hold the coin for a full hour, just after sundown, when the sky’s the same color as the piece of metal.

The glades have always been golden, unperturbed by seasons passing. The leaves range from pale yellow, like a halo surrounding the plains, to deep chestnut and warm gold, like molasses shining against the sun rays. Just looking at the birch woods from the edge of the farm makes him happy. His feet are caked in mud after playing outside, but the golden wheat reaches up to his waist, soon it will be ready for harvest.

Werdbrook is a small town, and there aren’t many kids around to play with, but he can’t complain. Dad’s friends come by the village sometimes, and show him the beautiful fabrics and wares they will sell in the next town over. Everything is incredible to him, and he can only begin to dream the quantity of coins these merchants must be handling on a daily basis. It makes him a bit jealous, but the Goddess wouldn’t want him to be. The Voigts are farmers, they have their own “gold”, and it’s enough.

 

He prays, in stead of making a wish, when his mother and father celebrate his birthday with a honey-filled pastry, still warm from Old Hannah’s oven, from the baker down the street. The crumbs stick to his chubby fingers, and he hopes he’ll grow as strong and tall as Desmond. He thinks of his brother at the strangest times – when he’s playing with other kids and swears he’s seen a shape turning a corner; when he picks marigolds for mom at the edge of the forest and he sees foreign prints on the ground beside his; when he accompanies dad to the market and feels a larger hand holding him back, before a cart can trample him. But a few days after his birthday, he realizes that the letter from last month has been the last.

For how much he thinks of his brother, and prays to the Goddess that he’s safe and rich somewhere in the world, Desmond mustn’t be thinking of him that much in turn. The letters he sends to dad don’t do a good job of mentioning him, it’s as if Des has forgotten about his little brother entirely since he left. Sometimes he writes “say hello to Wes from me”, and other times he sends a parcel with a little money and a carved statuette for him to play with – a cat, a dog, a palomino horse. The last one had been a maple-wood ram, with incredibly lifelike horns. But no other letters arrive after that, and as years go by, he begins to question if Desmond had ever really sent any at all. What if it was all a ruse from mom and dad? Counterfeiting fake letters from his brother to have him believe he’s still alive among the soldiers posted near the mountain hardly seems like something they would do, but after this much time, he can’t help but start to think they might be lying to him. Des might’ve died a long time ago and he might never find out.

 

The Citrine Glade is so beautiful at sunset, painted with a hundred shades of gold. He stayed out too late, much too late past curfew, and he prays his dad won’t give him a talking to when he returns home. At the edge of the woods, the trees are still alight with an ethereal, impossible glow.

The town in the distance is ablaze, the fire roaring past the roof of his own homestead, stark black against the fiery background. He sticks to the shadows, too afraid to approach the village now. The deep grooves in the earth and the bent wheat going from the brush beside him and into Werdbrook don’t bode well. Shapes move across his vision, and a familiar scream splits the night into two.

He prays between the tears, begging the Goddess to wake him from this nightmare. He sits on the back of a wooden cart, alone and barefoot. The orphanage in the next town over isn’t too bad, but he distractedly catches himself wondering when mom and dad will come to fetch him, before realizing it’ll never happen.

 

Desperation and anger in his voice, he prays to the Goddess to turn time around. “Not like this, never like this” he cries into a pouch of gold no kid his age has any right to own. He thinks back to the blessed coin, undoubtedly taken by the bandits along with everything else and his parents’ lives, and considers how much things have changed – from the privilege to hold a rare, treasured single coin, to having a bag full of them. It that one was blessed, these are certainly cursed. The Mayor in Werdbrook sent a message along with the gold. After several months, the farm could finally be sold. He hopes the money will help him happily relocate with distant relatives. He doesn’t know of any, and when one of his parents’ old pals comes knocking to the orphanage’s door, timing is a bit too convenient to be sheer luck.

Russel Lowe – merchant, peddler of wares, ambitious big-mouth, an “all talk” type; the man swears he remembers back when Wes was just a little boy, barely able to walk and speak but already a charmer. He pinches his cheeks and pockets the money, promising it will be put to good use to further his education and growth. He uses a word he’s never heard: “investment”. He prays to the Goddess on the way to Ty’oth, a lifetime away from home and from the orphanage, to please let this not be a scam. If anyone knows of rip-offs, swindling and cheating, and of any tricks underfoot, She does.

Lowe uses most of the money to jumpstart his enterprise, which is to say he pays the advance on the dingy store he’d been eyeing in the crafters’ district in Ty’oth. Second-hand wares, once-expensive objects that must have lost their worth with how often they’ve been passed from hand to hand, and all matters of improbable trinkets. This can’t be right, but Russel prays to the Goddess too. If it were blasphemy, She wouldn’t allow it.

 

He starts praying in earnest, with reverence for the first time in his life, instead of out of familiarity, when he reaches the Temple, to prove his worth and his goodwill. What money Lowe kept to invest on him was given to the priests for room and board, and he’ll be damned if he lets the expense go to waste. Training under the city watch taught him the rudiments, but he can’t keep swinging a blade like a brute among these holy men and women. The gilded halls of the Temple are too pristine for the likes of him, and he realizes that he should focus and learn as much as possible if he wants to stay. Gemstones, gold, marble and expensive fabrics flow as far as the eye can see, and yet the Goddess and Her followers have turned this place of worship into an incredibly hospitable home. The atmosphere is austere yet familiar, cold but warm at the same time; kind of like gold itself.

The faithful would come to the stunning Temple on the edge of the lake to pray for wealth and for the Goddess’ favor. Many from the Merchants’ Guild attended the service on blessed days, many of Russel’s friends came seeking a blessing for themselves and their own endeavors. The Order trained him well, teaching him letters, numbers, contracts and the art of the trade, and how to hold his own in battle, in case need be to defend a caravan or escort merchants along the trade routes. That was his purpose, and in the end there was some poetic justice to be found. All of this had brought him to the Temple, to be trained to protect travellers from bandit raids and robberies. He wishes someone like that had been around Werdbrook when everything went down. If anything, he prays he can be that someone for somebody else once his training is through.

 

He doesn’t have a lot of experience with worldly pleasures. The Goddess doesn’t forbid anything; on the contrary, nearly everything is allowed under her gracious gaze. Anything that keeps the gold flowing is a blessing. Going into Ty’oth proper, on the other bank of the lake, to enjoy what the great city had to offer was encouraged, but he didn’t feel at ease among the vices and addictions that riddled the locals. He’s used to a simpler lifestyle, and despite the wealth of riches within the Temple, the cloistered ways of priests and apprentices suit him very well indeed. He only prays his inexperience won’t shame or hinder him as he carries out his duties.

He spends many nights practicing the sword and shield on the sandpit outside, until the odd warble from stray magpies distracts him at sunrise. He spends many days appraising gems and studying ledgers to find signs of foul play that could hinder fruitful and honest business relations. And he spends many evenings, weariness deep-set in his bones and making his tired eyes close of their own accord, turning his mind away from the Goddess for a few moments, to recite a different prayer. He wishes the afterlife is being kind to Ewald and Isolda Voigt – might their souls be at rest – and, before long, as time relentlessly goes by, he adds his lost brother, Desmond Voigt, to the prayer, keeping him in his thoughts despite knowing without a shadows of a doubt that if his brother were still alive he’d be bearing him no mind.

The time finally comes to leave the cloister and the Temple behind. They outfit him with decent vestments that bear the design of the Golden Lady; he is given proper weapons and armor he can use to defend himself and others with. Rations and gold – enough to last him for the journey north. For the first time after a long time he’s scared. He doesn’t know what the future holds, nor what is expected of him. There aren’t many knights serving the Goddess as he does, and he wonders if perhaps he followed the wrong calling in taking up arms instead of becoming a holy man. After all, he’s nothing more than a lettered, pompous mercenary, now, whose job is to keep the trade routes clear and ensure that business agreements are upheld between the parties involved. A bureaucrat, a sentry, a travelling priest; his upbringing has been too refined to prepare him for a life on the road, perhaps, but he’s still a farmer’s son at heart, and he takes comfort in knowing the hardships of travelling for extended periods of time won’t bother him.

When he voices his worries, one of his mentors reassures him, suggesting he starts his path by following the trade route to Forsoth. Perhaps he could get there in time for the Council held at the end of summer, and then he will be able to see the city, fasten ties with the local merchants and the Guild, find new followers for the Lady and share her wealth and protection with those he encounters. He’s unconvinced, still. Secretly, he prays there’s a bigger picture behind this sort of lifestyle – some purpose he can serve. Not just fancy words, but true acts of worship to the Goddess that will confirm to him once and for all that losing everything was meant to be. His face must portray what he feels, and his mentor chuckles.

“Everyone feels this way at first. You’ll know when you’ve struck gold – so to speak. The Goddess will light the way for you, so follow the road she shines down upon.” It doesn’t make it easier, but it’s something he can cling to.

The Jade Plains aren’t the golden stretches of wheat he’s used to, and the sky isn’t the same color around these parts, but travel is pleasant enough to keep him in high spirits. He finds himself to be a fair pawn of his Goddess when he delivers swift justice to robbers on the road. He keeps his will steady, even as anger threatens to bubble to the surface whenever bandits and the sort come across his path, reminding him of past injustice. With kindness and grace, he shares his wealth with beggars and those in need in the cities he finds along the road. “Might their day be golden and their spirit enriched by the prospect of wealth to come”; it sounds pretentious, perhaps, but there’s nothing more honest than earning one’s keep through hard work and effort. “Work and trade ennoble man”, he’s believes every word, and the gold coin he could spare might mean a world of possibility to those who have nothing. Like the blessed coin his mom and dad had let him hold on that day of many years ago.

 

His travels bring him far, further than most major cities and hubs of commerce, but he finds that there’s more need for someone of his skill in the more unexpected places. One day, he follows a strange-looking man into a cave on the edge of a small town. Having heard from the commander of the guard that the foreigner was looking to fulfill an “unspoken agreement” with the Mayor to look into the disappearance of a farmer a handful of days prior, he had begun tailing the newcomer, feeling the watchful and propitious gaze of the Goddess emboldening his actions.

The man, his skin an unnatural color and with ram’s horns protruding from his head – perhaps a sign he was following his rightful calling? –, had found tracks from the farmer’s homestead and into the nearby woods. The foreigner disappeared into a well-hidden cave, but when an unearthly yowl rose from its depths, he rushed inside, sword and shield at the ready. The ensuing fight is unlike anything he’s ever experienced nor trained for. The elven creature in front of them is misshapen and as gnarled as the staff they’re holding, while the werebeast beside them stands on its hind legs and sheds human clothes and rags from its canine physicality. Before everything goes dark, following an unfortunate attack that managed to catch his under-protected side and clawing the skin from the bone, he has barely enough time to turn his mind to his Lady, with one last desperate prayer.

Sounds of battle are drowned out, a sickening yelp signals that the beast has been felled, leaving the tainted elf to be defeated still, and he cannot find the strength to rise. Sounds of laughter, the taste of honey, the smell of lavender oil and incense fill his whole being.

In an instant, however, all of his prayers are granted at once. Godly energy courses through him, sun shining in front of him like an impossibly warm and familiar embrace. A gold-clad woman descends from a ladder of jingling coins, like a waterfall, and She holds out Her hand. He takes it, how could he ever refuse a miracle like that? A whisper that feels like wind shaking the buckwheat where it stands reassures him that his journey isn’t over. On the contrary, this is the beginning. This is the road he must walk upon, this is the way carved for him. Many great deeds wait for him, now he must gather the strength and rise to his feet, so he might continue on his path.

Incredible power animates his limbs and he awakens to a bruised and battered body, but alive and breathing on the ground of the darkened cave. The elven creature still stands, a little worse for wear, and it’s enough for him to rise, hold his blade in the air, and strike.

 

That night, before going to sleep in the room at the inn he had decided to share with his new travel companion out of convenience and considering the state of both of their meager money pouches, he prays again, thanking the Goddess for her mercy and her graciousness. Warmth surrounds him, like the embrace he hasn’t felt in so very long, and when he shucks his blood-stained undershirt, he finds two thin bands of gold engraved under his skin, one on each upper arm. He doesn’t need the wisdom of the priests in Ty’oth to recognize the mark for what it is – a symbol of worship, of trust, the branding that a knight of the Golden Lady receives when they’ve found their calling. He knows the way, now, and even if he doesn’t understand what it means or where it’ll lead him, he shall follow it with faith and hope in his heart for the first time in his entire life.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, the character is "awakened" and reborns as a faithful servant of the Goddess near the end because I rolled a Nat20 on his 3rd Death Save, which brought him back to life with 1HP.  
> I do like to theorize and build stories to justify in-game rules and rolls ;P
> 
> PS: Bonus points if you can guess his Class/Faith!


End file.
